


AKA Maybe?

by revengeandotherdrugs



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Gen, I'm Sorry, Jessica Jones AU, Mild Self Harm, So much angst, Vomiting, e/R if you squint, irredeemable pain, this is literally just angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:05:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5297576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revengeandotherdrugs/pseuds/revengeandotherdrugs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has him handcuffed to a pipe in the bathroom. Under normal circumstances he would crack a joke about Enjolras being a secret kinkster but his stomach feels like it’s trying to force its way up his throat and he believes that if he opens his mouth all of his guts are going to fly out. So he keeps his mouth shut and tries to ignore Enjolras who’s leaning casually in the doorway, watching him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	AKA Maybe?

**Author's Note:**

> First off PLEASE HEED THE TAGS. This is mostly blood, guts and tears that I wrote to punish myself for having this idea in the first place.   
> Secondly this is kind of a test run/oneshot for a larger Jessica Jones AU that is floating around in my head so if you like this or think that you'd be interested in reading an actual AU not just this blatant self-serving painfest please let me know.   
> Enjoy!  
> Also, I'm sorry

Enjolras has him handcuffed to a pipe in the bathroom. Under normal circumstances he would crack a joke about Enjolras being a secret kinkster but his stomach feels like it’s trying to force its way up his throat and he believes that if he opens his mouth all of his guts are going to fly out. So he keeps his mouth shut and tries to ignore Enjolras who’s leaning casually in the doorway, watching him.

The fluorescent light flickers. It’s making this horrible humming noise that’s stabbing into Grantaire’s brain and making it hard to see.

He wonders for a moment why Enjolras is living in this dump anyway.

“I’m sick” He admits to the room at large. He’s not sure if Enjolras is even still there, he thought he heard footsteps receding down the hall but he may have been wrong. It’s nice to say it, whether anyone hears him or not, it’s an admittance of everything he’d never let himself believe. He says it again, for good measure.

“and you’re gonna get sicker” Enjolras is there, with a bottle of water “Try not to miss the toilet”

He’s too bright, to warm, too close. Grantaire curls in on himself, relishing the way the cuff digs into his wrist. “fuck you”

Enjolras sets the water bottle on the toilet tank and steps back a little bit to give Grantaire room to breathe in the cramped bathroom.

There are ants crawling under Grantaire’s skin and cracks in the floor-tile that lead into the void.

“I need…” he hates himself “I just need a little bit… just a little bit” he rattles the cuff, trying to reach for something, pleading with Enjolras like the pathetic thing he is  “just one hit, just one to wean myself off”

Enjolras is leaned against the sink, arms crossed, watching him; all impassive marble and cold calculation.

“I’m not going to help you kill yourself”

The force of the laugh that tears its way out of Grantaire’s chest surprises him. It sounds like broken glass.

“why not?” There is a bloom of mold on the ceiling above the shower. It looks like a bruise “why the fuck not? I’m useless. To you, to everyone…”

“yeah, like this you are” There is no force behind Enjolras’ words, it is as if he is reciting times tables, an irrevocable fact (two times two is four, Grantaire is useless, the sun rises in the east) “but before this, you were going to help people. You were going to school for social work, remember?”

It’s less of a laugh this time and more like a wheeze “That’s funny. That’s really funny. Who am I gonna help like this huh?” The chains rattle.

“you have a choice now” Enjolras tells him. Bright blue eyes narrow, cherry-lips are bitten into a thin line. It’s a bit like being under the all-knowing scrutiny of God.

Grantaire curls tighter into himself. His head is pounding and his stomach is moving like a ship in a squall. He hasn’t eaten in three days and still something manages to slosh uncomfortably.

The faucet drips. Keeping time in this strange dance of not-quites and almosts and never-weres.

Grantaire’s hands look like the insides of fish. He shakes his head until they don’t anymore.

“I always had a choice” He tells the off-white tile, face pressed against the dirty floor. “I just always made the wrong one”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything, just watches. His hair is in a bun and a few curls have come loose and brush against his temples. He is lovely. Truly lovely.

Grantaire’s stomach heaves violently and he gags, rearing up onto his knees to spit bile and mucus into the toilet. There is nothing to throw up but his stomach seems dead set on ejecting itself through his esophagus. it shakes his frame, clenches his muscles, brings tears to his eyes.

Enjolras is, somehow, still standing there; watching impassively as Grantaire grips with white knuckles to the toilet seat and shakes and shakes and shakes.

“you’re right” Enjolras tells him, once Grantaire has stopped dry heaving air, once he has settled back against the edge of the bathtub and wiped the snot and tears away with the sleeve of his ratty sweatshirt.

This shocks Grantaire into opening his eyes. Enjolras is sitting on the floor now, leaning back against the door, long legs stretched across the threshold.

“I can’t save you” He says it easily, like he truly doesn’t care. The lassitude of the over-worked.

Enjolras takes a breath, pulling his sleeves down over his fingertips and clenching his hands into fists. He meets Grantaire’s eyes and holds them. Grantaire doesn’t breathe.

“I can’t save you” He repeats. “I fight. That’s what I do and I’ve fought for you more times than I can remember” His eyes are overbright, but hard, resolved “but no more Grantaire, no more. If I lose you, I lose everything but I’m not going to kill myself to save you if you can’t even be bothered to stop wallowing in your own filth for a moment and give a shit.”

He has an envelope of something in one hand, that he places gently in the middle of the floor. Drugs, Grantaire knows; and he aches for them like air.

“There is no point in fighting for a life that you don’t even want” he pauses, watching twitching of Grantaire’s hands as he fights not to lunge for the envelope like some wild beast.

“you say you make the wrong choices” Enjolras continues, meeting his eyes again. Grantaire itches for the bite of a needle in his skin “you have a choice now. Make it. Wrong or right I frankly don’t care. Just choose” He stands.

Grantaire doesn’t see him leave. He’s too busy reaching for the envelope.

Paper shreds in his hands, bright yellow disintegrating into confetti. There are three little packets in there, and one sealed needle. He lays them out on the powder-pink of the toilet seat. 1. 2. 3.

They scream at him. He screams back.

1.2.3. It would be easy, really. He beats his chained fist against the floor. One Two Three.

There is blood in his mouth.

He laughs.

He slams his head back against the wall (one two three) and cries and cries and cries.

An hour later Enjolras puts down the bottle of gin,  wipes his teary eyes on his sleeve and pads his way to the bathroom.

Grantaire is curled on his side between the bathtub and the toilet. Eyes clenched shut, asleep, shaking. There is a broken needle in his hand, clenched to his chest like a child’s toy, broken glass and blood smeared over the milk-white tile.

Three small packets float, unopened and serine, ruined now, in the cloudy water of the toilet bowl. (1, 2, 3)

Enjolras unlocks the cuff and kisses the top of his head. Carries him to the bedroom and sits a long vigil in the armchair, legs crossed, just watching. He will not fight, but he will not leave.

Grantaire is resting at a crossroads. To fight. To give up. Enjolras will be there regardless. will love him regardless. And perhaps that is what decides it. It is better to have someone broken to love than to have no one at all.

Fight?

Give up?

Grantaire fights.

 


End file.
